


Conviction (Strikesgiving 2020)

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Road Trips, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: This is my attempt at Strikesgiving - again I've piled all the prompts into one long fic.It's fluffy and shippy and everything I love, but I wanted to do a silly, sweet scene without the Big Kiss so that's what I've gone for. And also because playful Strike is one of my favourite Strikes.The familiar scenario of Strike being annoyed at Robin for doing something dangerous.Rated M for language.I really hope you enjoy it! 😃
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 24
Kudos: 54
Collections: Strikesgiving 2020





	Conviction (Strikesgiving 2020)

"Are you finished with those?" Strike asked gruffly, reaching for the cup and plate on Robin's desk. She looked up from her computer, noticing him wincing as he leaned forward.

"Don't get up, I'll do it," she replied, and stood, gathering their used crockery and heading for the outer office before Strike could protest. She stood at the sink, waiting while the tap slowly filled the kettle, and pondered the current frosty mood that filled the office. While she knew Strike's reasons for being irritated with her, she was no longer willing to accept any responsibility for them; they existed only in his mind. He perceived her to be much more fragile than she was. The thought angered her all over again.

Having made more tea, she dropped one mug off on Pat's desk, getting a nod in return from its recipient, who was on the phone. Robin took the remaining two cups through to the inner office, placed them both on Strike's desk, and was about to sit when he spoke.

"Close the door, please," he said, his voice low and grave.

Robin did so, but turned to face him, arms folded defiantly. "Look, I'm not in the mood for another lecture, and I've got a lot of paperwork to do," effused Robin. She felt her voice tremble but was determined that she was not going to give in. Unfortunately, Strike was equally obstinate.

"I'm not going to lecture you. But I have the right to be worried, Robin, when you do stupid shit. Why did you do it?"

Robin sighed. They had been around in circles, Strike asking this same question, Robin giving the same answer.

"You know why! If I hadn't, you wouldn't have found Dawn Reed, you wouldn't have known that they were related -"

"None of that excuses you going to find a known drug dealer and punching him in the fucking face, Robin!" Strike shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. 

There was a loud rattle from the outer office; Pat had either dropped or slammed down the phone. Both partners paused, silent, waiting. Robin looked at Strike's face; it was red and angry, but she thought there was a touch of fear there too. She spoke softly, reassuringly.

"Cormoran, I didn't mean to hit him. I went there to talk to his daughter, but he turned up half way through and went for her. He grabbed her, yelling and swearing at both of us, and I just… reacted. I didn't actually punch him, you know. It was the heel of my hand," she added with a small, conciliatory smile.

"I apologise for the confusion," Strike replied drily.

"It's okay, you didn't know," she said, shrugging, trying to make him smile. It wasn't working. She tried a different tactic.

"Cormoran, we talked a while ago about you letting me do things that you think are a bit dangerous. It's part of the job, and I don't plan to stop doing it. If you'd have gone to see Haines he'd have recognised you. I stopped that from happening. Yes, it ended quite badly, but I didn't seriously hurt him. He won't press charges. I don't think he would even recognise -"

"Robin, what the fuck do you think I'm worried about?" Strike exploded all over again. "I don't care about  _ you _ hurting  _ him _ ! I don't care about him pressing charges. I'm trying my best to let you do the job, dangerous parts and all, but I can't... I feel like I can't breathe! You've got me under fucking siege, Robin!" He leant forward, both hands resting on the desk, panting as though he'd just finished a hundred-metre sprint. 

Robin stood very still, not knowing how to respond. 

"What do you mean?" she asked slowly.

Strike didn't reply for a long minute. Eventually, he sat back in his chair, the leather creaking. "Nothing. It doesn't matter," he said, rubbing his face with one large hand. "Did you hear that? I think Pat's gone home," he said distractedly.

Robin swallowed hard. "Yes, it's ten past five," she answered. 

Strike heard the shake in her voice, and looked up at her. He hadn't meant to scare her, and he tried to think of a way to wordlessly convey to her those thoughts that he wasn't yet comfortable saying out loud. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

"Can you please just remember, for future reference, that I would rather be attacked fifty times than see you attacked again?"

Stunned, Robin whispered, "I'll keep it in mind."

***

The next morning saw Strike and Robin sitting in the Land Rover, both clutching takeaway coffees, only half watching the manor house in the distance. Their target had disappeared into the house, and hadn't emerged or passed by a window in the four hours since. Deciding that they could reasonably clock off, the partners' talk turned to their plans for the next few days. 

"I can do it."

"You're not doing it."

"Cormoran."

"All right, you're not doing it  _ alone _ ," he replied.

Strike raised his eyebrows at Robin, almost daring her to push him. But he was determined that he would accompany her to any interview involving any member of the Haines family. The fact that Marcus Haines' sister lived in Ripley, a short drive from Masham, was not working in his favour. Robin had made the good point that she had been planning to visit her parents anyway. She could stay there. It would save the agency the cost of a hotel for the night.

"What did I tell you yesterday?" said Strike.

"Strike, Dawn is not going to attack me," Robin replied. "I know you worry, but I'm not as fragile as I look. Wardle even said -"

"What? What did Wardle say?" Strike demanded, scowling.

"Oh, sod off, Strike," she muttered.

"Wardle's married, you know," Strike said baldly.

"I know that," Robin replied, laughing. "I'm flattered you're jealous, but -"

She broke off abruptly. Strike's face had turned a vivid shade of pink, and she felt as though she had interrupted him doing something intimate. She struggled for a way to cover her sudden hesitation. "Er, I mean -"

Strike looked at her, still pink in the face, realising that she'd noticed. He inhaled slowly. "Wardle wants you on his team. I want you to stay on mine," he said, shrugging.

"I'm not going anywhere," replied Robin.

They spent a tense twenty minutes hammering out the details of their trip, including exactly how they were to interview the elusive Dawn Reed. They eventually decided that Strike would take the lead, hoping that his abrupt demeanour and the harsh news of her brother's criminality would intimidate her into co-operation. Robin had briefly protested at this, it being the first time she had known Strike to advocate a somewhat bullying strategy; however, she had to admit that it was the strategy most likely to work. 

"I don't like it much either, Robin, but you're not the only one who wants to do the job well, despite the shitty parts," Strike pointed out.

And Robin knew that he wasn't revelling in it; she listened as he came up with ways they could soften the blow before they left, ways in which Robin could play the good cop to their witness's benefit. Robin found herself imagining, not for the first time, what he had been like in the army. Certainly he was well respected; was he popular? Did he break the rules?

Strike interrupted her reverie. "We're going to have to find a Travelodge with space at short -"

"We can stay at my parents' place," said Robin, without thinking.

Both partners stilled, and Robin realised the significance of what she'd just suggested. "I mean, it's close by, it's free…" she trailed off, embarrassed.

"And us arriving in Masham together, just a few months after your ex husband and his pregnant fiancée? People will talk," said Strike, smiling slightly.

"I don't care," Robin replied fiercely, and Strike laughed. "And anyway, you don't have to stay in my room or anything, you can have the spare. Jonathan won't be home," she said, blushing.

"All right," said Strike, winding down the window and lighting up. He didn't think Robin saw the brief smile that touched his lips.

***

As the grey motorways of the south turned to the rolling hills and moors of Yorkshire, Strike and Robin relaxed into the easy camaraderie they had enjoyed before Robin's unfortunate incident with a drug dealer. Strike was glad he had managed to express to Robin his worry about her being attacked, and while he could have explained it away as merely professional concern, they both knew that his concern was deeply personal. What was surprising, though, was that Strike had found some relief in the fact that Robin now knew this tiny part of his feelings for her. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, and he watched the countryside roll by, smoking and chatting with a light heart.

Robin was positively glowing; revelling in Strike's unusually buoyant mood, she became more and more exuberant until eventually she was chattering happily about her childhood, littering her anecdotes with suggestions of places they might visit while they were in the area. 

"We're going to pass the place where I first got drunk, in a minute," she said, giggling in a most un-Robin-like way. Strike looked at her, amused.

"Don't tell me. Country pub?"

"No," she replied.

"Nan's house?"

"Nope." Robin tried not to laugh.

"Bus stop? Behind the school? Roller skating rink?" guessed Strike. Robin shook her head.

"All right, give us a clue," said Strike.

"There," Robin replied, pointing. Strike followed her finger and saw an unremarkable, nondescript field, complete with long grass and a battered wooden five-bar gate. "What?" he said. "In a field?"

Strike laughed out loud; it seemed so unlike her, despite what he knew about her willingness to trek through woods and dig in dells. Still laughing, he turned to face her fully, glad to see that she was joining in his merriment.

"Do you believe me?" she asked.

"Of course I believe you," he said. "How old were you?"

"I was sixteen. I'd had a drink before, but I'd never been properly drunk. There were a load of us - we used to go to a flattish bit around the corner and just hang out. One night we took vodka with us. A lot of it," she finished, grinning. 

Strike was intrigued. It was obviously a happy memory for her; she was pouring out details like she had never done before. "Stop here," he said, and Robin slowed down, looking at him quizzically. "I want to see it," he said in response to her questioning look.

Robin felt oddly touched as she pulled up in a small dirt track just a couple of hundred yards from the gate she'd pointed out. She tucked the Land Rover out of sight, almost in the long overgrown hedge to its right, and she clambered over the seats and the gearstick to exit the car on the passenger side. Strike watched her silently, a mixture of curiosity and contentment etched on his face.

They strolled back down the main road, hands in their pockets, backs to the setting sun. The evening was warm and balmy, and the fading light cast a golden glow over the grasses and trees surrounding them. Robin noted a black cat in the far distance, streaking from a bush on their side of the road to the old barn on the other. She'd never owned a cat; her family were dog people. She wondered whether Strike had ever owned a pet. With his nomadic childhood, she supposed not.

They reached the gate, and Strike leaned over it, forearms resting on the creaking wood. He looked down at her.

"So, where exactly is this grassy knoll?" he said, smirking.

"You can't see it from here." Robin joined him at the gate, her forearm brushing his as she leaned over to point. "See the oak tree there? The field sort of dog-legs around the tree, and there's another small bit. Quite secluded, flat, dry. Perfect for a load of pissed up kids," she joked.

"Or a couple of wandering detectives?" said Strike, eyes glinting.

"What?"

"Come on, Ellacott," he said mischievously, and before Robin could protest, he leaned his body forward, hands gripping the top of the gate, and shoved downwards. He heaved his legs over, using his torso as a pivot, and dropped down easily on the other side, brushing his hands together. 

Robin was momentarily stunned into amused silence, although she recovered quickly. She looked around furtively. Nobody was there. 

"Someone might have seen you!" she said, laughing.

"You chose it because you couldn't be seen, right? Come on," he said again.

Robin looked around once more, and then placed one foot on the bottom rung of the gate. She attempted a half-hearted vault, but succeeded only in hitting her shins against the central bars. Strike burst out laughing, and despite trying to look stern, she joined in.

"Don't look at me like that! I wasn't ready," she proclaimed.

"Maybe you'd do better to sit on the top first and then jump down," said Strike, still grinning. "Here. Hold my hand."

Robin felt a wave of embarrassment sweep from her head to her toes as Strike held out his hand for her to take, but it was soon forgotten as she placed her cold hand in his large, warm one. He helped shift her onto the top of the gate, and she manoeuvred her legs around to his side. She held his gaze as she dropped down onto the grass, still holding his hand. "Thanks," she said quietly.

"Have you broken your shins?" asked Strike teasingly.

"I don't think so," Robin replied, shoving at his shoulder. "We have to be quiet," she warned.

"Robin, there's nobody here."

"All right. Stay behind me," she muttered, leading the way through the dewy grass and towards the towering oak tree.

***

They walked for a couple of minutes, Robin surreptitiously glancing around her, until the field curved around a tight bend and revealed a smaller area that emerged as they walked up a gentle slope. The grass was shorter here, and the ground was dry and level. Robin stopped when they reached it; she looked at Strike awkwardly, aware of a vague sense of anticlimax.

Strike, however, looked perfectly satisfied. He took off his coat and spent a moment finding a nearby log and positioning it on the ground, and then draping his coat over it. He sat down on the grass and then leant back, spreading himself out and resting his head on the log. "Yeah, I can see it," he said casually.

"See what?" replied Robin.

"I can picture this being the place to be when you're sixteen and wanting to get sloshed," he said, grinning.

Robin laughed. She thought about the strangeness of the situation. Strike was lying in a field. A field in her home town. A field in which she'd spent many a weekend night with her teenage friends. Shaking her head, she slowly sat down next to him. There was enough space on the log for another head to rest. She wondered briefly whether he'd intended that to be the case, but then he turned and smiled at her again, and she threw caution to the wind and laid back, by his side.

They chatted about inconsequential things, silly things. They watched the emerging stars in the distance and tried to guess which constellations they might be. They laughed; Strike reservedly but genially, Robin freely. The thought occurred to both of them that they had nowhere to be and no one to answer to, and the night was mild; they settled in happily. Strike wished he'd brought beer.

"How much do you know about horseriding?" asked Robin absently.

The question surprised Strike. "Not a lot. I know you did it. And that you had a pony called Angus," he said, smiling.

"I can't believe you remembered that!" Robin exclaimed.

"Of course I remembered. It's one of my favourite images of you," said Strike. He paused, wondering whether he'd said too much. "But my favourite mental image is obviously Bobbi Cunliffe. I didn't see you, so I had to invent it," he said with a grin.

"What did that go like?" asked Robin.

"Black dress, black spiky shoes. Purple hair. Full goth make up. Maybe some fake piercings," he listed.

"You're pretty much spot on," Robin said, impressed.

"Damn," muttered Strike.

"Although the hair was black, not purple."

"Bugger," said Strike, and Robin laughed. "Still can't believe you wouldn't send me a selfie."

"Let it go, Strike," Robin replied, still laughing.

Some time later, Robin stretched out her arms, flexing her fingers and wiggling her toes. Strike watched her, content, but aware that she would soon be getting cold, if she wasn't already. She looked back at him, with the smile that was never far from her lips. Strike felt as warm as he'd ever felt towards her; he was grateful that she'd shared this tiny part of her life with him, and he didn't underestimate what that might have meant to her, given the fact that much of her former life had now been forever altered in her eyes by her teenage sweetheart's ultimate betrayal.

"You're right, Robin," he said quietly.

Robin pretended to fall off the log. Strike laughed loudly, dragging her back up, and then releasing her quickly.

"What am I right about?" Robin asked.

"The job. You're great at it, and I'm stupid to worry. That's not going to change, by the way, me worrying. But I'm not going to give you a hard time about it," said Strike.

"Do you really mean it?" asked Robin, smiling serenely.

"Yes, I do. I still wish you'd be careful. I told you how I feel when you put yourself at risk," Strike said cautiously.

"Tell me again," said Robin impishly, and it was Strike's turn to shove playfully at her shoulder. "All right, I get it," she said. "I'll be careful. I swear."

Strike nodded once, and then slowly started to sit up. He didn't want her to be uncomfortable.

"We should get going. Long day today, even without a cranky old bloke making you lie in a field for ages," he joked.

"Oh, but… can we just stay here a bit longer?" asked Robin.

Strike stopped moving. He held her gaze as he slowly lowered himself back down to the ground, on his side, one arm propping his head up so that he could face her. "Okay," he said softly.


End file.
